


What Makes A God

by frenchforbird



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Background Relationships, Because it is going to be extremely slow, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Elven Goddess Inquisitor, F/M, Please take note of the slow burn, Probably not Keeping Secrets slow, Slow Burn, The Creators, The Evanuris - Freeform, The Forgotten Ones - Freeform, but slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:31:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchforbird/pseuds/frenchforbird
Summary: In the beginning, the world was alive. The world was fighting, tooth and nail, but the world was alive. It was alive, and no one thought it would ever die. When it did? It made sense that it was Fen’Harel behind the disaster. His promise of peace had been too good to be true. But everyone was desperate. Tooth and nail.Falon’Arla, daughter of Anaris, runt of her siblings, seducer of men, assassin. She hid in the roots of a grand willow, not trusting Fen’Harel for even a second. The Veil injured her in a way nothing else had. Weak and afraid, she slept. She wandered the Fade, walked among spirits, until a somniari from Clan Lavellan came across her. He gave instructions to his people. Generations passed before Falon’Arla awoke, in a new and destroyed world.A dead world.Desperate to bury her troubling past, Falon’Arla dove into Dalish culture. When she was asked to attend a Conclave, deep in the mountains, she told her Keeper she would be honored. Falon’Arla believed she was the last of the gods. The last thing she expected was to be thrown in the middle of another war, of court intrigue, and a second end of the world. Something she expected even less? To encounter Fen’Harel in the thick of it.





	1. The End Of The World

_”When I used to think about the end of the world, I thought it would be loud. The truth is, what you notice the most is how quiet it gets. The world is holding its breath. When I think back, the only thing I am certain of is watching that building come to pieces, nothing making a sound. I felt the heat on my face. I don’t remember anything concrete, after that. Spiders. A woman, enveloped in light. No sound. Nothing, until I woke up in manacles, staring at a dripping ceiling, and a pulsing pain in my left hand.”_

A door slammed open. Light poured in from behind it, following two women. Terrifying women. Arla straightened, as best she could on her knees. One of the two looked like she was built for shadows. The other looked like she wanted to kill Arla, looked like she was seconds from doing so.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” She had short black hair, scars with stories behind them, anger in her eyes.

“Oh.” It all fell into place. “You think this is my fault.”

Arla wasn’t prepared for the woman to bend down, her calloused fingers closing tight around her left wrist. Arla’s palm was marked, a green slash that had foreign magic oozing from it. It visibly pulsed, almost glowing, and another wave of pain spread up her arm. “Explain _this_!” The woman shouted, a thousand threats behind her piercing eyes.

“I- I can’t. I was hoping you would be able to.” This was the wrong thing to say, she realized quickly. The tall woman’s hand went to her belt, fingers brushing against the hilt of her quite large sword. She shouted something again, but there was only ringing in Arla’s ears. Genuine fear. There was no way she was getting out of this, not when she was so weak, not when-

“We need her, Cassandra!” The second woman finally spoke. Her voice, cool and collected and only slightly annoyed, cut through to Arla. Cassandra stepped back, scoffing in disgust.

“What do you mean, you need me? I swear, I didn’t do this.” The redhead studied Arla, silent. Frankly, Arla was getting tired of silence. The rhythmic dripping of water was enough to drive her mad. “What even happened, up there? All I remember is an explosion, and…”

“It will be easier to show you,” Cassandra knelt, unlocking the manacles. They were swiftly replaced with rope, tied tighter than necessary. “I’ll take her to the rift. Leliana, we’ll meet you at the forward camp.”

Leliana nodded, sharp. She hesitated a moment before backing out, and Arla noted for the first time how desperate the woman looked. How desperate _everyone_ looked, the guards standing at attention and Cassandra. Cassandra looked like a woman who never needed to be desperate. She was all she needed, strong and strategic. Curious as she was, Arla was suddenly filled with dread. Whatever had happened was enough to shake everyone to their core. 

Cassandra hauled Arla to her feet, shoving her in front. They climbed the stairs into a brightly lit room, candles on every surface. She realized she had just emerged from the basement of a Chantry. The building was almost empty, footsteps echoing. A man pushed open the door for them, and all the dread Arla had felt was suddenly justified. She stood in the doorway for longer than she should have, eyes fixated on the tear in the sky. She could almost feel the magic that poured from it, a familiarity just in the back of her mind.

“We call it the Breach. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons-”

“The Fade? That’s impossible.” Arla blurted out the words, getting a glare in return. She quickly backtracked, keeping her eyes on the Breach. “The Fade is the place of dreams, isn’t it?” 

“This is a surprise for all of us. No one quite knows what to do with any of the information we have. It isn’t much, either.”

Arla pondered that for a moment, not even allowing herself to blink. She watched as the tear in the sky pulsed, flashing. A boom echoed throughout the mountains and Arla suddenly found herself on the floor, clutching her glowing hand. She’d felt the pain before, ebbing away, but this was so much worse. Cassandra was helping her to her feet, saying something, most likely explaining. Arla caught a few of the words. “Killing”. “Stopping”. Everything else was lost in a hazy film of pain. 

“Are you listening?!” Cassandra snapped at Arla, her voice raised and sharp. Arla held her breath before nodding. She’d put together the pieces herself by now. That mark on her hand was connected to the Breach. And the Breach? She finally recognized the magic. It was ancient. “Come on, we need to get moving.”

They trekked through the falling snow, Cassandra still speaking and Arla still missing every other sentence. The pain was stronger somehow, and with each burst from the Breach it was growing worse. After a particularly strong one, ending with Arla on the ground again, Cassandra practically force fed her elf root. Raw, like it was, it wouldn’t have as great of an effect, but after a few moments of breathing and chewing, she felt it take hold. Now, she couldn’t understand Cassandra because of the dim haze that had settled.

That haze made it about ten times more terrifying when the bridge exploded.

The haze was gone, replaced by adrenaline. Cassandra shouted at her to stay behind, pulling out her sword. A demon was across the frozen water, Arla was sure she was going to be excessively bruised in the morning, and she now knew she never wanted to get into a fight with Cassandra. When another demon rose from the smoking green in front of her, Arla didn’t hesitate for a second. She was a fighter, even if it had been a couple years. She grabbed the mage's staff that was lying, discarded, just a few steps from where Cassandra and Arla had landed. It only took a few seconds for her magic to spread throughout the wood. Arla grinned, and turned to face the demon that looked quite set on having her head.

The movements came easier than she would have expected. Block, lightning, smack it in the face when all else fails. For a moment- the smallest of moments, but a moment nonetheless- Arla forgot where she was. She could have been on the battlefield, in the back ranks of the enemy, taking them out to give her father’s men an advantage. Arla blinked, and that was gone. She was in the middle of a snowstorm, standing over the dead body of a demon. Cassandra had also been successful. She watched as the warrior kicked the demon’s decaying body, then turned to face Arla. 

“Drop your weapon!” Suddenly, that large sword was pointed at Arla, still wet with the demon blood. “Now!”

She flinched, at first, but then there was anger. “I could have died. Who knows what else we’re going to run into?” Cassandra hesitated, so Arla pressed the issue. “Besides. I’m a mage. I don’t _need_ this staff.”

Five minutes later they were off again, Cassandra considerably colder to Arla than she had been before. She said they were getting close to the first rift, and the Breach was looming closer with each step. Demons continued to rain down, now they were off of the beaten path. It seemed another group was around each corner. They made quick work of each demon they encountered, but Arla was beginning to wonder what to expect if they got to the Breach. 

Sounds of fighting could be heard up a set of stairs carved into the mountain. Cassandra uttered an urging to hurry, to help, but she didn’t say who they needed to give assistance to. Arla didn’t ask. As they peaked the hill, she could see quite clearly. A small group of men, battling demons that were spitting out of what must be the rift. The rift bothered Arla to look at. It seemed to be constantly falling in on itself, changing and shifting and decidedly otherworldly.

The two didn’t hesitate to dive into the fight. There were spells being cast, bolts from a crossbow burying themselves in the demons, the air thick with blood. As much as Arla had enjoyed her life with the Dalish, she had been raised on the battlefield. This was where she truly belonged. This was where she knew what to do. For someone seeking redemption, she fell into old habits easily. 

“Quick!” As another demon fell, a voice, halfway familiar, cut through the noise. Fingers closed around her wrist, and her hand was thrust towards the rift. “Before more come through!”

Arla considered asking the stranger what the hell he was talking about, but the words were halted in her throat when she felt a tug of magic in her palm. It built into the green mark before bursting forth. There was quite a bit of noise, and a little bit of pain, before the rift seemed to fold in on itself into nothing. Silence filled the clearing.

“What did you do?” Arla turned to face the man who had grabbed her hand, feeling some of the pain subside. His face moved into few, and their eyes met, and Arla felt her heart in her throat. That face, the scar… the voice, that had seemed so familiar. And those eyes. Recognition settled into her mind, and a name sputtered in her throat. She knew this man. No, she had _known_ him. She had known him, in a time long since past, in a time that he had destroyed. Everyone from that time was supposed to be gone. Gone, dead, trapped. Not in the middle of this disaster.

“I did nothing. The credit is all yours.” When he spoke, Arla couldn’t help but imagine the tall halls of Arthalan behind him. Still so commanding, after all this time. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized it might be able to close the rifts- and it seems I was right.”

He didn’t recognize her.

All those years, alone, suffering, remembering, and he didn’t recognize her.

It made sense, she supposed. She was the daughter of a man who often forgot her name. The runt of all her siblings, her job was to work in secret, in the shadows. Undermine a force before the battle even began. But she ran his messages. She did his dirty work. She did everyone’s dirty work- but he still didn’t recognize her.

Maybe it was for the best.

“That means it could also close the Breach,” Cassandra said, stepping up from behind Arla. Arla shook off her internal conflict, deciding it was an issue to deal with later. If she ever wanted to deal with it.

“Possibly.” He smiled at Arla, and she tried not to flinch. “It seems that you are the key to our salvation…”

“Arla. My name is Arla.” She supplied a name to finish his sentence, turning to look at the dwarf with the crossbow as he cleared his throat. 

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong.” He smiled a charming smile, bowing his head slightly. She heard Cassandra scoff behind her. “And this is Bianca. My favorite crossbow. She’ll be good company once we get to the Temple.”

“No, no, absolutely not!” Cassandra broke in, exasperated. “Your help is appreciated, but-”

“Have you seen the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You’ll need me.” Cassandra opened her mouth to argue, but broke off with a sneer. Varric responded with the smuggest grin Arla had seen in awhile.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” Solas. _Pride._ It was a fitting choice for a name. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” Varric slung his crossbow onto his back. His comment gave Arla pause.

“Then, I suppose I owe you thanks.” Now she owed the fact she was alive to this man. The conversation moved forward, talk of forward camps and how Arla was just an ordinary mage and the soldiers in the valley. Arla carried on, as good as mute, her mind in a turmoil. She thought that she had seen the last of Fen’Harel. He had ruined the world. Killed it. It had been so many lifetimes since the Great Betrayal. He should have been dead by now, or exiled, or anywhere but here.

Fen’Harel- Solas. He’d looked at her with no more recognition than one would expect. He didn’t remember her, her place in the grand scheme of things, she was merely a Dalish girl caught up in something much too big. But Arla was smarter than to think she was in the clear. He would find out eventually. Whether she slipped up, or outright told him, or he put the pieces together himself? She didn’t know how much time she had before her carefully crafted history fell apart. 

\---

Solas, the disgraced god Fen’Harel, realized who he was fighting alongside when the Dalish girl moved in from her safe casting position and started fighting like a warrior. He faltered, then, his magic waning as he watched her. Suddenly, it all made sense. The face, her familiar magic, how the mark had bonded to her and hadn’t quite killed her yet. And her name, most of all. _Arla._ Who would name their child trap? He supposed, if she had been a city elf, desperate to reclaim her culture but really knowing nothing, it would have made sense. But she wasn’t. It just made more sense to go by Arla instead of Falon’Arla. The Friendly Trap, the assassin who lured so many men and women to their deaths. She’d even passed along the messages Fen’Harel wished to get to Anaris. 

She was an Evanuris. A Forgotten One. 

And she was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! First chapter! A million thanks to Feynites and playwithdinos for the invaluable help they gave me getting this fic started (and finishing the first chapter).
> 
> I'm not exactly sure where this will go. I usually work out the entire plot before I'm able to write, but I'm actually really excited about this story. Hopefully it will be the boost that gets me back into writing things for Dragon Age! In the meantime, apologies to my Overwatch readers. This might take priority for a bit, but I promise I'll get around to updating those fics eventually. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope people are interested in this story, and stick around! Thank you so much for reading, and feedback is always always always appreciated.


	2. Secret In A Secret

_Thinking about the past was a luxury. I would only let myself do it after a battle, and with Clan Lavellan, battles didn’t happen often. They traded with the humans, with the dwarves. Once, with a band of Tal Vashoth. It was good for me, to limit my thoughts about the past. If I sat too long, eyes closed, pretending I was standing in my father’s halls, I’d be heartbroken for at least a week. Besides, the past was often lacking happy memories. I didn’t want to waste them all, leaving dreams of war and death behind._

There was no place for the Forgotten Ones in the grand palaces of Arlathan. The Forgotten Ones were impure. They were unwelcome. If any were caught, they were made an example of. Any reasonable person, knowing this punishment, would avoid Arlathan and its palaces. Luckily, Falon’Arla was not reasonable. She was the best a god could be. Unknown. If someone dug deep enough in the libraries, they might find a passing mention of the youngest daughter of Anaris. She had been born a weakling, magic not coming easy to her. The greatest trait she had was her face. It was pretty, too pretty to be a threat. When Anaris called out to his dozen children, announcing that he had a message for Mythal that needed to be delivered, she was the only one who stepped forward. The pride in his eyes made up for the fact that he didn’t remember her name. It was a foolish decision, offering to go on this mission. Death was likely, if not guaranteed.

Mythal’s palace was least the palace-like of them all. It was covered in sprawling gardens, each wing linked by beauteous pathways and bridges. Falon’Arla had arrived just past nightfall, and watched as servants lit various lanterns. The gardens glowed, to put it simply, an ethereal sense to it all. It was surprisingly easy to enter the grand halls, strolling past guards. It helped that she did not wear vallaslin. Anaris had gratefully granted her that, as it kept her beauty more pure. A man opened the door the grand halls, and she stepped inside. Music played in the distance, and a mixture of Mythal’s devoted and nobles lingered in the entryway.

“You there.” Falon’Arla sighed, in almost disappointment, before placing a smile on her lips and turning to face the guard who had spoken. “You are not familiar. I do not mean to be rude, but I must ask-”

“My name is Ghilana. I’m one of many nomads, that live in the mountains?” The lies sprung to her lips before she had time to think them. “A village under Mythal’s patronage aided us this winter. Many would have been lost to death without them. We wished to offer the village tribute, but I supposed that speaking to Mythal first would be appropriate.”

The guard, having looked so untrusting just moments before, smiled at her with kindness. He gestured for her to enter to throne room, and she bowed her head courteously before doing so. It was easier than she thought- but there was still a chance that a soldier in attendance would recognize her, or even an Evanuris who had visited her father before. The room was decently crowded, and it was simple to keep her head down and move forward. She only paused to take a glass of some golden drink into her hand. 

There was a small gathering of those waiting for an audience with Mythal. The woman herself sat upon a grandiose chair, fabrics spooling onto the marble floor, laughing as she spoke with what appeared to be a general. Falon’Arla took her place in line, doing her best to look like she was enjoying the evening, surveying the room for exits. 

“She’s awfully intimidating when you get close, isn’t she?” A whispering intruded into Falon’Arla’s planning. Another woman, looking barely past twenty winters, smiled nervously at her. She wore the markings of Dirthamen, spiralling across her face in a lovely blue. “Only the incredibly stupid or the incredibly brave come to speak to her, I’ve heard. I’m thinking I must be one of the stupid ones.”

“I’m assuming you have a reason to be in line? Not just to chat with Mythal?” Falon’Arla wasn’t interested in speaking to anyone but Mythal, but brushing off this woman would do nothing but raise suspicion. The woman laughed nervously in response, smoothing down her hair.

“I’m going to ask Mythal for permission to propose to one of her devoted. I’ve already asked Dirthamen,” she said, gesturing to her vallaslin, “but he is much easier to talk to. We like to joke, call him a glorified librarian.”

“My vote is for incredibly brave, then. Not only do you have to ask Mythal, but you’re going to have to ask your lover to marry you.” 

“But doesn’t that mean I’m incredibly stupid? She probably won’t say yes- my lover, not Mythal. Who knows what Mythal will say?” The woman continued rambling, and Falon’Arla fell into the role she often did. A listener. She listened to her siblings prattle away each day, bragging of their victories and conquests. This was a nice change of pace: simply a woman nervous about if the one she loves truly loves her in return. “I think the worst part of asking Mythal _anything_ , though, is that guard dog of hers.”

Falon’Arla followed the woman’s finger to a man who stood in the shadows, just beside the throne but almost unnoticeable. Fen’Harel. Falon’Arla knew him very well. Her night had been going so well, it would only make sense for him to recognize her and have her thrown out, or worse. She turned away from him, hoping that by the time he caught sight of her face, she would have already explained it all to Mythal. 

Moments passed, and the woman was called forth. She asked Falon’Arla to wish her luck, and for a moment, Falon’Arla let herself wonder what it would have been like if she had not been born to Anaris. If she had been born to a simple family, if she had pledged service to one of the Creators- or, in another case, if she had been born into service. Maybe she would have ended up friends with this woman. They would have gone with each other to ask gods permission for proposals, attended each other’s wedding. Maybe, in one world, Falon’Arla would have approached Dirthamen, to ask his permission to wed the woman. 

When she blinked, the fantasy was gone, and the woman was descending the steps from Mythal’s throne with a blinding grin. She whispered something in passing, but it was not acknowledged as Falon’Arla approached the throne. She just needed to give Mythal the letter, and she could go home. She could leave this world of bright gardens and proposals and lock herself in her room and wallow in regret of things she could not control.

“Mythal.” Falon’Arla bowed, offering all the respect she could. When she stood, she pulled a crumpled scroll from beneath her cloak. “I have a letter from my father.”

“Oh? And who would that be, girl?” Mythal smiled, but it was merely a pleasantry.

“Anaris.”

The silence that followed was almost embarrassing. Her hand remained outstretched, holding the scroll, waiting. Mythal’s face was unreadable, but the smile had vanished. Fen’Harel had lifted his head, watching carefully from the shadows, but Falon’Arla did not waver. She couldn’t, not after her father had viewed her with pride, not after all she had risked to get this far into Arlathan. 

“I am going to be honest with you, girl. I do not believe you, and even if I did, there is nothing you could say to convince me to even entertain the contents of that letter.” 

“Mythal, please, I-” The desperation beginning to bleed through was cut off by a guard beginning to slide the sword at his waist from its hilt. “My apologies. I shall bid you an enjoyable night.”

Falon’Arla descended the steps with less grace than she had climbed them. She pretended the tears in her eyes were of frustration rather than true sadness. The woman from before approached her, sympathy in her eyes, but Falon’Arla brushed her away. There was a moment- a very small moment, but a moment nonetheless- that Falon’Arla considered asking her to take her to Dirthamen and pledge herself into his service. It was a foolish idea, Falon’Arla could barely tolerate the thought of service to a Creator, but she didn’t want to return home empty handed. She wanted to disappear. 

The frustration and sadness continued to build, so she ducked out into a hallway obscured by curtains. The noise from the throne room vanished, replaced by silence. A spell had been cast, she assumed, and she wasn’t complaining. There had to be some way to fix this. Anaris may not care that much, if she returned and told him the truth, but he would never look at her with that pride again. 

“Falon’Arla” A voice cut through the silence, commanding and cool. Falon’Arla gasped in surprise, whirling around to face Fen’Harel himself. “Let me see the letter.”

“Anaris specified it is for Mythal’s eyes-”

“You and I both know that Mythal is not going to read that unless she has much better incentive than you _claiming_ to be his daughter.” He held up a hand to stop her from offering another protest. “Let me read it. Please.”

Falon’Arla noted his hesitation before he said please. Eventually, she sighed. It was either this, or nothing. Maybe it would be worse than nothing, but she wouldn’t know until she tried. She pulled the letter from under her cloak, and handed it Fen’Harel. He nodded his head in thanks and unfurled it. She managed to keep her curiosity in check- Anaris had made her promise not to read the contents unless Mythal deemed it necessary. She had no clue what she was risking getting caught for.

“Tell Anaris that Mythal isn’t interested, but I’m willing to work something out.” He folded the letter up, then made eye contact with Falon’Arla. “Tell him that my conditions will be different. He can make the offer. And… well, that about covers it. I look forward to seeing you again, Falon’Arla.”

Fen’Harel left her alone in the hallway, absolutely stunned. It was an embarrassingly long time before she collected her thoughts, straightened her dress, and reentered the throne room. Her newfound friend rushed up to her, peppering her with questions about if she was okay, and if she would like to come meet the one the woman had just finished proposing to.

Falon’Arla knew she had to depart soon, but the night had just been saved, and she was feeling a little rebellious. Sparing a single glance to the throne, where Fen’Harel again stood, she linked arms with the woman and fetched another glass to sip from. Perhaps she was stuck in a life of attempting to impress her father and serve the Forgotten Ones until she died. That didn’t mean she could spend a night as Ghilana, mountain nomad, and meet Mirthadra’s soon-to-be wife. It was a night of peace, and, for Falon’Arla, a night of celebration.

\---

Night had fallen. They were calling Arla the Herald of Andraste now, and a celebration was occurring in the small tavern. The music was more jovial than what had been played in Mythal’s halls, and everyone was shouting and singing along. Leliana had been the one to invite Arla, knocking on the door to her room inside of the repurposed Chantry. Arla had promised the spy that she would consider it, that she might need more rest before that. In truth, the reality of what she had lost in the explosion was finally hitting her. 

Ellana had journeyed to the Temple of Sacred Ashes alongside Arla. They trained together, shared an aravel, put their lives on the line to protect the other. After everything that had happened, it had finally clicked that Ellana was dead. They were like _sisters_. And now, it was all gone. It wouldn’t have been that hard if Ellana was with her, helping her hold this burden. Ellana was dead. She was gone, burnt and destroyed. There wasn’t even a body to bury. 

Arla continued her walk past the tavern. She couldn’t celebrate anything with her best friend was dead. She’d have to write a letter back to the Clan. For a moment, she wondered if they would blame her for it. Clan Lavellan knew she was a Forgotten One. After all they had offered her, she wanted to stop living lies. But, they were forgiving. They would mourn Ellana, just as they would mourn Arla. The Clan had lost both of them, if in different ways. 

“Arla?” A familiar voice called out to her. She considered pretending she hadn’t heard, feigning that she had been lost in thought, but she hesitated long enough that Solas caught up to her. 

“Solas. You aren’t at the party?” She glanced at him, doing her best to convince herself that he was simply an elven apostate she had only met a few days before. 

“You aren’t either, I noticed.” He walked with his hands behind his back, looking up at the sky. It was a simple conversation, that’s all. She tried to even her breathing.

“No. I’m not in the mood to celebrate.” He turned his focus to her, questioning. “My friend… she died, in that explosion.”

“Ah. My sincerest apologies.” Solas sounded genuine, looked genuine. But all he had done was superimposed on the kind face he wore now. Arla knew she had to keep up appearances, there was no reason for her to suspect an small town apostate. She came up with an excuse quickly.

“Thank you, but I was hoping to walk in peace.” She stared at him pointedly. It wasn’t much of a lie. He hesitated before nodding again, slowing his pace. “I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“Of course, Arla. I understand the pain of losing someone you love.” He turned, in the direction of the tavern, and she stopped to watch him go. The snow continued to fall, and soon she was the only one outdoors, shivering and alone.

However long it took for the Breach to be sealed, it would be a difficult time. At least she was used to lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, this chapter was much easier to write than the last one. It helps that there's less dialogue, since I am terrible at that bit of writing.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


	3. At A Crossroads

The Hinterlands. It was close enough to Haven that the journey was not too difficult. Soldiers had cleared an area of trees and set up tents, a fire, anything they could need on this mission. Arla wasn’t sure how long they would be staying. Supplies had been brought to establish multiple camps across the mountain range. Leliana had told her that the Inquisition needed to establish influence across Thedas, so setting up a considerable presence in the Hinterlands was a great start. Arla felt uncomfortable in the mage robes Cassandra had found for her. It was just a glorified dress that singled her out as a mage much more than her staff did, and gave a minimal amount of protection. She’d almost tried to argue with Cassandra about it, but that woman was absolutely terrifying when she wanted to be. Mage robes it was.

“Herald.” Cassandra’s voice cut through, although it took a moment for Arla to register she was the one being spoken to. Both Solas and Varric looked up as well. “We need to get down to the crossroads. Corporal Vale needs our help.”

“Right, let’s go, then.” Arla picked up her staff, longing for her old one that had, no doubt, been destroyed in the explosion. Cassandra led the way down from the camp, making airless comments about the Hinterlands, and how the Hero of Ferelden had traveled through here nearly ten years ago. She considered mentioning that she had met the Hero at the last Arlathvhen. Sulahn Mahariel of Clan Sabrae. Her younger cousin was in Clan Lavellan. For a world-known hero, Sulahn was simple and kind. 

The fighting at the crossroads was growing louder. Arla could make out shouting, screams, pleading for help. The air was thick with magic. The four rounded a corner, finding a scene filled with terrified villagers, mages, and templars. Bodies lay across the ground, some moving, some too far disfigured to even guess who they were. Arla shifted her staff in her hand, waiting for Cassandra to signal that they could move in. She was trained for this.

Diving into another fight gave her a rush of adrenaline. The only thing that was different was that she didn’t have her mask. It was a gift from Anaris, who needed her skills on both the battlefield and off. He couldn’t risk a soldier from a battle recognizing her now, so she was to keep her face hidden. It was almost liberating, though. She could see the entire field now, where enemies were approaching. They were coming at her to kill, she could see it in their eyes. Despite having entirely the wrong robes, Arla fought like a warrior. She used her staff as a blunt object, and many came to realize that the metal bit on the top was not for decoration, but for stabbing. Each move was perforated with magic, as she cut down both the mages and templars. War was never something to wish for, but she felt like she belonged here. 

The battle was over quicker than it had started. Some templars and mages fled, others surrendered. More Inquisition soldiers seemed to feel the road, healers attending to wounded. Arla stepped back from it all, asking directions from a refugee who had hid under their cart the entire time. Mother Giselle was supposedly at the top of a hill, near a hut that held the most wounded. Arla was not sure what she expected. Mother Giselle had offered her help, but it could have been a trap. Regardless, she was part of the Andrastian church. It didn’t matter that Arla had been asleep through most of it- the Andrastians had done more than their part to destroy elven culture. They took Halamshiral, they stole the Dales, they murdered and pillaged and now Arla was supposed to trust one of them?

She supposed she had no choice. The Inquisition itself had been established by the previous Divine, Justinia. Justinia was now dead, and this was her legacy. Not to mention the whole “Herald of Andraste” thing. Arla hated it. She didn’t want to be a Herald of that woman. She didn’t want to be a Herald of anything, least of all the woman who caused the creation of a religion that destroyed her people.

Mother Giselle was speaking with an injured soldier when Arla reached her. The man was in dire need of treatment, even Arla could see that. A mage, probably a healer, stood just beyond Mother Giselle. He was waiting patiently, until Mother Giselle talked the soldier into accepting treatment from the mage.

“Mother Giselle?” The woman looked up and smiled, patting the soldier on his shoulder and walking to meet Arla.

“I am. And you must be the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste.” Mother Giselle had a kind voice, welcoming.

“I’d rather you call me Arla. I was told you wished to see me?” 

The woman hesitated for a moment. Perhaps Arla had been too brash, snapping about her name. She didn’t have the same welcoming voice. But Giselle recovered quickly, explaining the actions of other clerics, promising to give names of those sympathetic to the Inquisition cause, and claiming that a gathering of those, proving rumors wrong, would gain the Inquisition support. She left Arla looking over the crossroads, a million thoughts running through her mind. Why did this fall to her? Why couldn’t she just stay in Haven, venturing out to seal rifts? Why did she have to make all these decisions? She felt almost like a general. She didn’t like it, she had never liked having this much power. 

“What’s on your mind, Arla?” Varric had found Arla, shortly after she slipped into the crowds of refugees, listening to stories and promising help. “Hopefully no guilt over those templars and mages?”

“No. No guilt of that.”

 

“Oh? Then what has you so glum?”

“Why did this happen to me? Why didn’t I die in that explosion, with everyone else?”

“Ah. The hero’s existential crisis. I’d like to give you some comfort, but according to Hawke, it never really goes away.” He smiled, as if that was supposed to make her feel better. “One of the things I left out of the book, of course.”

“Keeper Deshanna sold this trip to me and Ellana like… it would be a vacation. Snowy mountains? A village full of people selling things? All we had to do was take notes.” She found a stump, and sat down on it, running her hands over her now-bloody robes. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

It was easy to talk to Varric. He listened, made quips when it was called for. And, he didn’t press. She had total control over what she said, which meant there was a lot less fear of slipping up and mentioning the life she had before Clan Lavellan. It was easy to bury that fear, battling and strategizing. Even back at the Clan, it was customary not to mention her past. As far as anyone was concerned, her life had begun when she climbed out from under that tree, covered in dirt and with hair down to her toes.

On the way to the Hinterlands, Varric had once asked Arla if she had any good stories. They had been huddled around the fire, not quite out of the snowy mountains, and he had just gotten done with his retelling of an adventure with Hawke. Arla thought she was the only one really listening, leaning forward eagerly. Learning the myths and legends that had survived with the Dalish had always been her favorite thing. At one point, she thought she might be a storyteller.  
When Varric asked her for a story, she hesitated. Solas looked half asleep, so she let her shoulders relax and grinned at Varric. 

“Oh, I have a story you wouldn’t even believe.” She paused, for dramatic effect, then shrugged. “Maybe I’ll tell you it, one day.”

Her and Varric had been good friends ever since. She needed friends, having lost her closest, having been stranded in a foreign situation. He understood her pain, and he worked with it, not around it. They spent a good amount of time talking before Cassandra tracked them down, Solas close behind. He was quiet and stoic, as usual. Arla avoided looking at him, as usual. 

They had a long day ahead of themselves.

\---

Solas had started keeping an eye on Arla. He had noticed how she was avoiding him, ever since that first night when she had been out walking. He wondered if she had recognized him, agonized over it- but another thought had drifted around. Arla was so aggressively Dalish. She cursed like a Dalish, hunted like one, ate like one. And that vallaslin? It was unlike any he had ever seen, but Falon’Arla was the last person he would expect to get any sort of vallaslin. Maybe he had gotten it wrong? Maybe he was so desperate for a familiar face that he made it up?

He had been debating this in his head when he noticed Varric asking her about stories. He lifted his head, watched as she grinned and made a quip about having a story that Varric wouldn’t believe. It could have been another coincidence, but after this time, it was hard to believe in coincidences. He watched her even closer after that, searching for any sign that she knew who he was. If she did? It could ruin all of his plans. They had already been ruined enough. He didn’t need the bastard daughter of a Forgotten One stepping all over it.

\---

They set up another Inquisition camp near the horsemaster’s land. It was smaller than the first had been, but Dennet's daughter had brought them some fresh bread and it was well lit. There was a rift, down by a nearby river, but the demons seemed content to remain where they were. Varric had once again supplied them all with a grand tale, even the officers settling in by the fire to listen. 

“Arla!” Varric suddenly pointed at her, who was in the middle of devouring the bread. “Tell us one of those Dalish stories! Of gods, and scandals, and all those good things!”

“Gods and scandals do go hand in hand.” Arla laughed, but swallowed hard. If she slipped up now? “Which god and their scandal would you like to hear about? Andruil, goddess of the hunt? Mythal, the great protector? Elgar’nan, the god of vengeance? Or, perhaps, the Dread Wolf?”

“The Dread Wolf? He sounds interesting.” Cassandra spoke now, finally taking part in the night. She had been watching Varric with disgust for most of it. “He does not have a name like the others.”

“His true name is Fen’Harel. His is the god of betrayal, and the reason why my people have fallen into such despair.” She glanced at Solas, noting his blank expression. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to tell stories of Fen’Harel. “Most of his stories are full of betrayal, as such. Perhaps another god-”

“No, betrayal stories always bring in good profit!” Arla laughed at Varric’s protest, then nodded her head.

“Very well. I shall tell one that was my favorite, back in the Clan.” She took a deep breath before she began. It was a story of betrayal, but also of cunning. Besides that, it was a story about her own father. “Fen'Harel was captured by the Andruil. She was a great hunter, armed with a legendary bow and golden arrows. He had angered her by hunting halla without her blessing, so she tied him to a tree and declared that he would have to serve in for a year and a day, in any way she asked. Then, and only then, would she free him. However, as she made camp that night, Anaris found them. Anaris was one of the most powerful of the Forgotten Ones, the dark equals of the Creators, and he swore that he would kill Fen'Harel for crimes against the Forgotten Ones. Andruil and Anaris, discarding the ancient grudges between themselves, decided that they would duel for merely the right to claim Fen'Harel.’

“Fen’Harel was a cunning god. Knowing his fate would be poor, regardless of the victor, he called out to Anaris during the fight and told him of a flaw in Andruil's armor, just above the hip. Anaris stabbed Andruil in the side, and she fell. Fen'Harel told Anaris that he owed the Dread Wolf for the victory, and that his reward should be his freedom. Anaris was so affronted by Fen'Harel's claims that he turned and shouted insults at the Dread Wolf. It was due to this anger that he did not see Andruil, injured but alive, rise behind him and attack with her great bow. Anaris fell with a golden arrow in his back. Both gods slumbered to heal their wounds, while Fen'Harel chewed through his ropes, and escaped."

“An interesting tale.” Solas spoke now, and Arla felt the dread in her heart that he had figured her out. She had recited the tale just as Hahren Dirthaen had, regardless of her own knowledge. 

“Interesting? Come on, it’s more than that. The drama! The intrigue!” Varric looked extremely satisfied. “Are there any more? Jeez, I should have gotten Merrill to tell us some of these. She told Hawke about the whole ‘Great Betrayal’ thing, but they’re terrible at storytelling.”

“There’s more, but why should I tell them to you now?” Varric made noises of protest, and even Cassandra looked disappointed, but Arla merely wanted time for her heart rate to go down. “You need some reason to keep me around.”

Cassandra made a comment about the mark, and Varric launched into another one of his own tales, but Solas remained silent. He was silent most of the time, so it wasn’t that big of a deal at first glance. Except, Arla could feel his eyes on her. She shivered, then straightened, pretending nothing was wrong. How close was she to him finding her out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me go, three chapters in three days! I had a lot of fun doing my little retelling of the Dread Wolf legend, although I spent ages trying to decide which legend to do. This chapter is slightly shorter than the other ones, but the next one will probably be longer. It has another flashback scene, and those are easier to write for me, apparently.
> 
> I hope everyone who is reading is enjoying this story! I'm taking it blind, this time, not entirely planning out the rest of it, which is very different from other fics I've done.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, feedback is appreciated!!


	4. Care And Comfort Wins No Wars

They stayed at Dennett’s farm for a few days, negotiating conditions to receive his services. Plans for lookout towers had been delivered to the Inquisition camp, marked with the location of a pack of aggressive wolves. There were plans to take care of them before lunch, but Arla had decided to slip away in the sheep pen. Dennett’s daughter, Seanna, had left her on her own with a bag of seed. It was nice, sitting in those fields, surrounded by gentle creatures who saw her as nothing more than an innocent source of food. 

It reminded her of sitting in the midst of Lavellan’s halla herd. Halla were kind beings. They didn’t know or care about her dark past. They trusted her to tend to them, to help with their births, melded their horns into intricate braids. She found the most peace when she was with the halla.

Sitting in the green field, the bells ringing in her ears, Arla was suddenly homesick. It came upon her in an unexpected wave of heartbreak, crushing her lungs, stealing her breath. She was so far from home, from family. Ellana, Ellana was dead, buried in the destruction that stole so much from the world.

She let every breath of hopelessness wash over her until her head hurt from the sobs. She held her hands tight to her chest, pressing against the pain. The herd of sheep nestled around her, a distant anchor in a spinning world.

“Herald?” Cassandra materialized at the gate, annoyance falling to concern.

“Arla,” she corrected, wiping the tears, hands pushing at the grass in attempts to stand. 

“Don’t get up on my account… Arla.” Cassandra fiddled with the gate until she could enter the pen, standing away from Arla, something close to kindness in her eyes. “We were worried for your disappearance. Seanna told me when she saw us searching. Are you…”

“Spare me no sympathy, Cassandra. I do not need it.” Arla managed to find her feet, straightening her robes, fumbling for her staff. “Give me some time, and I will be ready to leave for the woods.”

“I-” Cassandra looked hesitant, but her stance relented. “I’ll get everyone ready. But, Arla?”

She turned to face the Seeker, rubbing a hand over her blotchy face. “Yes?”

“If you need anything, come to me. I know we are still so new to each other-”

“And you threatened to kill me,” she added, dry and retreating, cruel and untrusting.

“Well, yes, but-”

“Thank you, Cassandra. I’ll go get ready.” Arla fled away, her eyes almost flinching. She knew she shouldn’t have been cruel, but it was all she could manage when her heart ached so heavily, when her hands shook. She’d apologize another, bring some sort of token as a gift, but no one would get anything from her today. Nothing but a good hunt.

\---

There was a celebratory hunt, a send-off for experienced hunters. Their excited cheers faded as they caught the trail of the Zeras herd they knew wandered the woods. Arla had not been on many hunts, not with Clan Lavellan, so she stayed to the back of the group, watching and waiting. Ellana fell into step with her, grinning ear to pointed ear.

“Ceremonial hunts are my favorite. Not sure why visiting a shem conclave deserves it, though.”

“Hahren Merle said it was a necessity for a journey, and-”

“And Deshanna didn’t want to argue, right? Typical.” Ellana laughed, before being shushed by the head hunter, Paviel. Her voice dropped to a sarcastic whisper as she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m getting a ceremonial hunt before I become Keeper. Deshanna’s told me, many times, how she embarrassed herself in front the clan when she was initiated. This is nice and private. Like a practice run.”

“Both of you, quiet. We’re getting close.” Paviel glared back at them, stringing their bow and gesturing beyond a clump of bushes. Hoofprints came into view, as well as some unpleasant smelling droppings. “Are you ready?”

Arla and Ellana nodded, and Arla tightened her grip on the ceremonial blade in her hand, cutting in the palm of her hand. It was melded out of Ironbark, older than even somniari that that had found Arla’s spirit in the Fade. They needed to take the dead Zeras and cut out the bone that surrounded the heart. After carving their names into the bone, written in ancient elven script, they would present the bones to the eldest in the clan. The eldest would bestow the blessing of Andruil upon them. Arla found it hard to not resent that part of the ceremony- the scars from the night Andruil had hunted her through the lands of the Forgotten Ones had not faded. 

The small hunting party crested the hill, and in a small clearing rested the herd of Zeras. It was an easy hunt; they had only spent two nights in the forest before finding the herd. Hunts could last as long as months. Smiles spread among the hunters as Paviel raised his bow, pulling it taut, aiming the arrow at the head of what seemed to be the oldest of the herd. Time seemed to slow as he let the arrow fly from his fingers. It whistled through the air, arcing until-

\---

-the arrow embedded itself into the head of the lesser terror, which let out a piercing shriek as it fell. Varric let out a whoop, punching his fist into the air, a cheer that echoed through the party. Arla fastened her staff to her back, rubbing at the faint cut on her right palm, not quite healed. They carried the drunken sense of victory as they traveled back to their camp, congratulating each other, laughing.

“Hey, Arla, didn’t you say there was a goddess of hunting, the other night? Tell us about her.” Varric called back to her, almost cradling Bianca to his chest. “A good story for a good hunt, right?”

She laughed, nodding before tilting her head to the sky. It looked like rain, arching over the horizon. “She loved to hunt. It drove her mad, when she picked a prey she couldn’t handle the home of. Countless stories she has. Back at camp, we had a statue of her. It was a grand sight, that statue. Hahren Merle makes the little ones memorize The Charge Of Andruil.”

“Do you know it?” It was Solas asking this time, his voice sparking off the anxiety that Arla held in her heart. She had to work hard to convince herself his question wasn’t a trap. “Or, remember it?”

“Of course. Hahren would leave me for the wolves if I didn’t.” She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a second, before reciting. 

“Hear me, sons and daughters of the People--  
I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares,  
Lady of the Hunt: Andruil.

“Remember my teachings,  
Remember the Vir Tanadhal:  
The Way of Three Trees  
That I have given you.

“Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow  
Be swift and silent;  
Strike true, do not waver  
And let not your prey suffer.  
That is my Way.

“Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow  
As the sapling bends, so must you.  
In yielding, find resilience;  
In pliancy, find strength.  
That is my Way.

“Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood  
Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness.  
“Respect the sacrifice of my children  
Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn.  
That is my Way.

“Remember the Ways of the Hunter  
And I shall be with you.”

There was silence after she finished, and she glanced around to see faces of confusion, awe, and the unsettling impassiveness of Solas. Arla found herself blushing under their stares, running her hand over her head. 

“Where did this- charge, you called it?- where did it come from?” Solas questioned again, his pace slowing. There was something almost accusatory in his eyes.

“Um, from Andruil?” The confidence she had carried before faltered, and she looked away. Had he figured it out, now? After everything, she had somehow slipped up reciting a mantra she had been taught when she first was taken in by Clan Lavellan. “It’s our history.”

“And your vallaslin? History, as well?”

Her heart stopped in her throat. The vallaslin, that she had toiled over the design over, depicted a form of her father’s crest. The symbol of the fallen moon, the horns of his helmet, the pearls of his beloved wife. She’d been such a fool, fretting about the words she said, forgetting the one thing she couldn’t change. The ink on her face was like a badge of identity. The damning evidence.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t recognize your vallaslin, Arla.” Varric’s comment broke into her scattering thoughts.

“Well, no. Not many do. Lavellan is a strange clan, you see.” The excuse sprang from her lips, but it sounded false even to her ears.

The conversation carried on, moving to other hunting prayers, Varric’s Dalish friend in Kirkwall, what they would eat when they returned.

Dennett’s wife organized an impromptu feast when she saw them return, and they crowded inside the farmhouse to eat some of the bread Seanna had brought them the previous night, as well as rich meat. Arla excused herself after her eating her share, claiming fatigue, finding no argument or suspicion. 

She wandered the paths through the farm, not intending to head back to camp quite yet, when a voice sounded from behind her, cold and accusing.

"Falon'arla?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school has started, so updates will be spread out. I'm trying to work on getting chapter length up, but I always want to give you new content and keep y'all from waiting ages.
> 
> thank you for reading!! feedback is always appreciated


	5. A Muddled Masquerade

“Fen’harel.” Surprisingly, her voice managed to stay steady. She didn't turn to face him, sighing. “Fancy meeting you here.”

It was an attempt at humor, a jab at fate, but Fen’harel, Solas, he didn't laugh. She knew why. He wanted to lock away the gods, all those years ago, and somehow one managed to escape his wrath. Somehow, one managed to end up in the middle of his latest plan to ruin the world. Her being there changed everything.

“How are you here?” There was anger in his voice, approaching her as he grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I don't have time for your games, Falon’arla.” She flinched at the fury in his eyes. For a moment, she was the powerless girl in his castle, begging on behalf of her father, turned away with a sniff. But then, Arla smiled, and straightened, and countered.

“And I don't have time for your lies, _Fen’harel_. I survived your death warrant on Arlathan. You took my family from me. If anyone should be angry, it's me.” He was taken aback for a moment, words failing. “And now, your magic has killed hundreds. Care to explain?” 

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Solas had the decency to look nearly ashamed. “I needed to unlock my foci-”

Arla scoffed, disgusted. Stupid focis. They were held over the heads of people like Arla. Gods, but not Evanuris. Powerful, but not respected. It didn't help that Arla wasn't full blooded. Her mother had been a simple shop girl, one of Anaris’s conquests while his wife was off at war. 

“I've gotten along just fine without a foci, I doubt this… massacre, was worth it.” 

“You don't understand, Falon'arla, I need to fix my mistake.”

“And how do you plan on doing that? It has been _centuries_ since the Great Betrayal. Arlathan has fallen, Halamshiral was taken, there is nothing you can do to change that!” He responded with nothing but silence, leveling his gaze with hers until realization dawned. “No! No, you cannot possibly think-”

“This is my mistake to solve. All I need is my foci, and all will be well.”

“You are a fool to think I won’t stop you.” She spat the words, biting at his confidence. “How long have you been awake. A couple months? A year?”

“Two. And when I woke up, I realized-”

“I watched, from the dreams of the Fade, as the new world changed. I whispered in the ears of slaves, of Halamshiral marchers, of Emerald Knights. And when I woke, Clan Lavellan took me as one of their own. I’ve gotten used to your _mistake_.” She glanced at the sky, at the far distant glow of the Breach. “What you plan to do? It will destroy so much more. _You_ will destroy so much more.”

“The Dalish are fools, and you are as well. This is the only way.”

The fire that brimmed in their voices clashed almost audibly. Arla knew she would defend this world until her dying breath. Solas would not take this new life away from her. He’d already stolen one family. Yet, he was so determined, so prideful. He always had been.

“There is always another way.” She brushed past him, head held high, emotions sparking in her chest. So soon after losing Ellana, in an explosion he caused, she didn’t think she could ever forgive him. Especially not today.

“Falon’arla, wait, let me ask…” Solas waited as she paused, oozing impatience. “How did you get free from the Fade?”

“You think I trusted you enough to follow your scavenger hunt?” He bowed his head, sighing as his admitted it. “I hid in the roots of a willow tree. When your veil went up, I was too weak to do anything but sleep. My spirit wandered the Fade until I was woken.”

With that curt explanation, she turned and left, heading back to her tent. Angering and arguing with a god probably hadn’t been her best decision that night. But they were equals now. If anything, she had the upper hand, with the Anchor, her reputation as Herald.

Arla splashed her face with water from the stream before climbing into the tent she shared with Cassandra. Uneasiness clung to her bones as she curled under the heavy fur blankets. She didn’t know how everything would end up. Cassandra still couldn’t promise she wasn’t going to be locked up. She couldn’t even guess how the people would react if she came forward with her true identity. 

Cassandra did not return to the tent until there was no light remaining in the sky. She collapsed ungracefully onto her bedroll, smelling of candle smoke and mead. Arla had not yet cleared her head of her conversation with Solas, awake and panicked. She held impossibly still, watching the shadows from the camp’s fire dance on the fabric of the tent.

“I know you are awake,” Cassandra said, startling Arla. “No one sleeps so tense. I have news; we are to head for Orlais soon. I received a letter from Leliana. Josephine shall be ordering what she calls ‘proper Orlesian attire’. Outfits for all of us, of course.”

“I won’t wear it.” Arla was done with the parts of her life where she dressed for others.

“Oh!” Cassandra laughed, not the response that Arla expected. “Neither will I, I’m guessing. All I’ll ask is that you try it on. Sometimes, she hits it on the nose. Other times… well, Orlesians have a very odd sense of fashion.”

“When will we be returning to Haven?’

“Even sooner than Orlais. We’ll give everyone some time to recollect themselves before traveling again. Across a sea, even.”

Arla did not respond, letting her eyes close. She heard Cassandra half attempt to start a sentence before settling into her own blankets. The distant sounds of the night lulled outside the tent until sleep arrived.

\---

Haven was more crowded than Arla remembered. Tents were set up near the training grounds, and people crowded onto the paths to catch a sight of the ”Herald of Andraste”. Solas excused himself almost immediately, making no attempt at eye contact with Arla. It hurt, if she was honest, even when she had turned him away so crudely. There was finally someone she could be truthful with, lament about Arlathan and the people who had been lost. It didn't matter if she disagreed with what he wanted to do… she was lonely, simple as that.

Cassandra told her there would be a War Table meeting at dusk, before letting Arla made a beeline to her room. She need to be alone now, especially after riding for hours on end, the awkward silence between her and Solas hanging in the air.

The small room she now called her own had not been disturbed, save for an opened envelope lying on her pillow. Leliana had scrawled a note on the outside, an apology for reading the contents, claiming that there were dozens of letters addressed to Arla each day, and it was her job to filter through them.

Arla stared at the letter for longer than she should have, anxiety rushing through her. The only people who would ever write was the Clan, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know what they said.

Eventually, she took her seat on the bed, sliding the letter out. A few elfroot leaves, dried and breaking, fell into her lap. The letter was lengthy, and she could tell more than just Deshanna had put ink to the paper. After a few moments of preparation, Arla focused her eyes on the first line of text.

_Arla-_

_We hope you are well. A letter from a someone named Montilyet arrived yesterday, telling us of you and Ellana. We’ve begun our mourning- the halla seemed to know before any news came. We hope you are alright, being so alone out there. I know you and Ellana were close. Please, do not hesitate to write, we know you must be hurting. You will be in our hearts every night. It is all anyone hopes, that you will return to us soon._

_We have sent some of your things. Perhaps they will make you more at home._

_Ar lath ma,_   
_Deshanna_

The next section was a song, written by the Clan’s self-appointed ballad writer. Surahna promised to perform it next time Arla was with them. There was one line from Hahren Merle, an elven blessing in their scrawling script. Well wishes of all sorts were snuck in between lines instructing her how to brew a healing potion, a lyrium potion, and the syrupy wine they brewed for celebrations.

There was love you love in that letter, and for the first time in weeks, Arla felt happy.

\---

She searched for Solas after the meeting, carrying some sweet bread as a peace offering. The sweetbread had actually come from some Chantry sister, but Arla hoped the sentiment would still be there. It was late enough, dark enough, that not many people stopped her, most only able to recognize her by word of mouth. Varric waved, surrounded by drunken tavern-goers who were desperate for a story. She smiled, turning the corner to see Solas standing outside one of the houses, reading a book and tapping his fingers on his thigh.

She stopped for a moment, watching him. It was so different than the man she had known in Arlathan. He was so reserved now, rather than the ambitious young man who sat at Mythal’s side. He had been a true royal, imposing and commanding. Now, he simply looked bookish, and wise.

Her analyzing gaze drew his attention after a few seconds, and he glanced up from his book, sliding it into some obscured pocket and waiting for her to approach. His face was impassive, but she tried not to let it bother her too much.

“I brought sweetbread,” she said, holding out a slice. Solas took it, but she could tell he wasn't going to eat it by the way he held it. “I also brought a half-apology.”

“A half-apology?”

“I don't think I can ever forgive you for what you took from me. But you are the only person I find myself knowing. I would rather we aren't at each other's throats like wolves.”

He regarded her with cold eyes, suspicious. It was understandable. They were at such a hard impasse, and there would come a day when they were no longer on the same side. But Arla was so desperate for a friend. For someone to talk to, even if they ended up arguing. He was the only one she could be entirely truthful with.

“When did you realize it was me?” He finally let down his guard, relaxing his stubborn glare.

“From the very start. I recognized the magic, first, it hung around the frays of the Breach- clung to my skin. Then, when I saw your face? It all started to make sense.”

A group of tavern-goers poured out into the snowy path, laughing to each other and shouting greetings. Solas waited until the group passed until smiling politely at Arla.

“Perhaps we should take a walk.”

\---

Solas watched as Arla made her way out of Haven. She carried herself with a confidence she hadn't had in Arlathan. She had been confident before, but this was different. More comfortable. The last time he had seen it her, it was only a false confidence holding her together.

It terrified him, how much she had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for any grammar or spelling issues. I never edit and I typed this when very very tired. 
> 
> hope you guys enjoy!! I did a bit of a longer chapter this time, and im working on another long chapter that I'll hopefully have up next week. 
> 
> thank you for reading!! feedback is always appreciated :)


	6. Daggers and Dances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so someone is late.

So late at night, there was no one at the docks. Arla dangled her feet over the frozen lake, her eyes trained on the Breach. She felt Solas hesitate before he joined her. He was still so stiff and formal, sitting cross legged next to her. Silence hung in the cold air until Arla managed to gather her thoughts.

“How long did you say you’ve been awake? This entire time, or…” Her fingers grabbed at the tall pond reeds that shook in the evening wind, pulling a stalk free from the ice. 

“Two years. The magic… it drained me more than I had expected. I couldn’t even access the Fade.” His hands sat in his lap, still and calm. “How long have you?”

“Seven years. But I could see it all happening, from the Fade. My spirit was trapped there. About thirty years before I was found, a somniari from Clan Lavellan came across me and made a vow to find my tree and wake me up.” The reed was looking less and less like a reed as she picked and peeled and teared at its form. “She died, before the Clan found me. But Deshanna still offered to take me in.”

“But you’re a Forgotten One.” His hands were clasped together now, trapping the warmth.

“I _was_ a Forgotten One. But they were willing to forgive.” She let the shredded remnants of the pond reed drop onto the ice. “All I ever wanted, really.”

Solas raised his gaze from his lap, looking at Arla as she let out a pitiful laugh. Her hands smoothed over her short hair before reaching down to pull out another reed. Solas knew all about her life in Arlathan. She didn’t need to explain.

“The Dalish were much less accepting of _me.”_ He sounded almost accusatory. She laughed again, meaning it this time.

“I’ve heard how you speak of the Dalish, and what you plan to do- that doesn’t surprise me.” Arla laughed again, this time at the genuine offense on Solas’s face. “Acceptance is a two way street.”

Silence. Another reed tossed to the wind. Quiet, breaths, _silence,_

“The hair-”

“It was so long, when I woke up. Deshanna called it an act of cleansing. Besides, it’s easier to hunt.” And the braid she had always worn, her trademark, her claim to the house of Anaris… she couldn’t ever come close to that again. 

\---

“Your hair is perfectly suited for braids da’len. Not too curly, no, absolutely perfect!” Gentle and calloused fingers pulled at the thick black hair on the young girl’s head. Melana’lin smiled down at the girl in her lap. “You have the makings of a great warrior, you know. One would hate to have their hair loose in battle.” Silence hung in the air until the lady spoke again. “And we must find you a better name. Arla is no name for the daughter of a great king.”

“But I like being Arla.” The young girl finally spoke up, pouting in the embellished mirror. “Mamae told me that it was the name of her Mamae, and a very special thing.”

“Well-” Melana’lin faltered for a moment, her fingers stilling, her own smile drifting. “I’m sure we can find a name that keeps Arla in it. In fact! I shall call a namer, for you, this very evening!”

The young Arla was contented with this, but slowly grew more restless as her hair was braided up. She’d been in Melana’lin’s quarters for days, now. The rooms _were_ quite big, and the bed that Arla had been given to sleep in _was_ softer than anything she had ever know, but she was desperate to get inside. She wanted to see the rest of the palace that Melana’lin said she was to live in. 

“There. What do you think, da’len?”

Her hair was braided tightly, matching the elegant coils on Melana’lin’s own head. Arla ran her hands over the braid, watching her face in the mirror, watching Melana’lin’s. The lady looked pleased with herself, almost humming. She tucked flowers into Arla’s hair, smoothing out in flyways. She didn’t seem to mind that her question had gone unanswered. 

“Now, look at you. We’ll get you a proper name, and you’ll fit right in. Adeni is dying to meet you; she’s excited to have another sister.” 

“Is Anaris excited to have another daughter?” Arla crawled off of Melana’lin’s lap, making a beeline to the toys that had been delivered the previous afternoon. She wasn’t too concerned about the fact that she wasn’t receiving an answer. The answer didn’t matter. Melana’lin had promised that Arla was a part of Anaris’s house, no matter what. Nothing could hurt her.

\---

“It’s getting late. Perhaps we should return.” Solas was standing, looking over the lake. They’d been in silence for a while, occasionally reminding each other of old habits and questioning new ones. Arla nodded, her fingers raw from picking the reeds to pieces. The cold was finally getting to her, along with the emotions of the night.

They meandered along the path back to Haven, in a continued silence that was almost comfortable. Arla kicked at small stones in her path. A gust of wind blew through and she shivered, yearning for the dry warmth of her quarters. And then, almost out of nowhere, a figure appeared before them. Their hood was up and a scarf covered their face, but they seemed almost relaxed. 

“Are you the Herald?” They tilted their head down to look at the dim green glow coming from Arla’s left hand. “I have urgent information that you need to read.”

“Yes, of course, what is it?” 

“Come, look.” The stranger fumbled with a pouch as Arla approached, their gloves slipping over the small silver clasp. She wondered had been so important to hunt her down, out in the snow. For a moment she wondered if something had happened to her clan, but she supposed it had to be something smaller than that. A letter, an artifact, a contract?

A flash of silver, and a pinpoint of pain.

Shouting, running, the smell of a magical barrier that had been broken.

A crack as her head hit the frozen ground, hurting more than the warm pain in her chest. 

Darkness.

\---

When the dark stranger had approached Arla, Solas had known something was wrong. No, he did not know, he only suspected, but there was enough suspicion that he was wary. He saw the knife only a heartbeat before Arla did; the magic that burst from his hands was not nearly enough the stop the force of the blade from drawing blood. The stranger- the assassin- turned to flee, and Solas could not tell if they were worried about succeeding. 

He didn’t bother chasing, kneeling down next to Arla, shouting nonsense, hoping to draw the attention of one of the guards. It wasn’t the first time Arla had been bleeding before him, attacked by an assassin, but it was the first time that her death would mean something. 

He cast his spells to stop the bleeding, almost frantic. Her wound wasn’t as deep as he had thought it had been. She’d recover, and if she was lucky she it wouldn’t scar much. Guards appeared as his magic set in, seemingly out of nowhere, then shouts for healers and torches being lit and then-

In seconds, or maybe hours, it was over.

The night held silence again. Guards were back at their posts. The Herald of Andraste was going to live. The bloody snow was long since covered under another layer of powder. And when Solas blinked, he found he hadn’t moved. His hands were still smarting from the snap of the barrier. A realization had come upon him. 

Should Arla die, Corypheus would succeed. And if Corypheus succeeded, Solas’s plan would turn into nothing but ruin. He needed the foci. Arla was no longer a disposable pawn. No longer someone he could dismiss. No longer a person of no consequence. 

\---

The second time Falon’arla stepped through the archway of Mythal’s palace, she was expected. She carried another letter in her belt, and wore one of Adeni’s dresses, the red silks sweeping across the floor gracefully. Her hair was braided in tight loops, flowers from the garden inserted haphazardly. No guard stopped her this time. If she was questioned about her original purpose, as Ghilana, she had a response crafted already: she simply enjoyed city life much more than the mountains. 

Fen’harel was not at Mythal’s side this night, but Falon’arla found no issue talking a flute of golden champagne into her hand and casually mingling. She wasn’t afraid of a random soldier recognizing her now. Her dress was elegant, her hair was different, she wasn’t on a quick mission anymore. She had made herself beautiful, and no one liked to question beautiful women. 

It wasn’t long before she abandoned the half empty glass and joined the mass of dancers. Falon’arla toed off her shoes at the edge of the room, then stood outside the circle until an available partner pulled her in with little more than a greeting. The whirl of the dance was Falon’arla’s favorite part of nights like these. Pressed flush against a stranger, laughing over the music, steps quick and complimented. She remembered the first dance she had watched, a small girl sitting on the edge of the circle, clapping her hands to music, desperate to join. The stranger led her through the dance, occasionally calling out instructions. They were handsome enough, certainly, with long black hair and the markings of Sylaise. He knew what he was doing, leading Falon’arla across the dance floor with confidence.

The music came to an abrupt end, silence holding as dancers removed themselves from the floor. The stranger kept a firm hand on Falon’arla’s back and led her to the side as the music slowly resumed. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a server, holding one out and smiling. 

“You’re certainly an adequate dancer,” he complimented, tapping his feet to the music. “You can call me Vena.”

“I’m Ghilana,” she responded, tapping their glasses together. “Always loved a good dance.”

“Ghilana… lovely name. I haven’t seen you before. I’m sure I would have remembered such a face.”

A laugh, attempting to be humble. “I’m from the mountains. Considering staying- I love the parties.”

“I’m glad Arlathan has made such an impression on you. I would expect nothing less from my home.” Vena led her to an empty alcove, slightly charmed against the music. Fen’harel had since appeared at Mythal’s side, and Falon’arla could feel his dark eyes following her across the ballroom. There was a second of hesitation before she turned her full attention to Vena. The Dread Wolf could handle waiting.

“You must come to one of Sylaise’s gatherings. You haven’t experienced Arlathan until you’ve spent a night there. Of course,” he laughed, a charming sound, “you’ll have to find something more suitable to wear. Sylaise prides herself on beauty.”

“Of course.” It was no surprise that Sylaise would have a dress code. She’d visited Anaris’s court once, many years prior, and everyone in attendance had to display their finest clothes in her colors. Falon’arla had only been allowed to attend for a brief moment. Rank mattered just as much as fashion, and Melana’lin’s friendship could only do so much.

“Perhaps- pardon my excitement, Ghilana, but I haven’t had someone willing to be a guest in ages- I can find you something more flattering to wear for tomorrow night’s gathering.” There was eagerness in his eyes, surprisingly nothing malicious. Her chances of getting caught were higher, so deep into the city, but the chance to have some fun…

“If you find something for me, I shall gladly attend.”

Fen’harel’s gaze caught Falon’arla’s attention again. Something was could about it this time, more impatient. With all the grace of a supposed mountain dweller, she excused herself with a promise to return the next evening. 

The hallway was just as empty as it had been the last time. There were curtains of spider gauze drifting in the breeze coming from over the gardens. The rumor was that only those under Mythal’s service and her most trusted were allowed to access the eastern gardens. They were mostly empty, save for some spirits and a lone servant with a lantern. 

“I don’t appreciate being made to wait, Falon’arla.” She didn’t turn to face him, eyes tracing the maze of paths down below. “Do you even have something for me?”

“Calm down, Fen’harel. There’s a party going on, didn’t you notice? It wouldn’t kill you to have some fun.” She paused, studying his unamused face. “Or maybe it will.”

He held out his hand, impatience shining through his impassiveness. She sighed before pulling the letter out from her belt. She still wasn’t sure what Anaris was asking of Fen’harel; her father hadn’t found it necessary to let her in on the secret. Fen’harel took the letter eagerly, and Falon’arla turned back to the window while he read. The lone servant with the lantern had disappeared. 

“Tell him that I want Vhenas’din’an.”

She whipped her head around, eyes wide. Vhenas’din’an was a sacred place, one of the only lands outside of the Abyss that the Forgotten Ones could call their own. Falon’arla had visited it only once before, the ancient place guarded by illusive Sentinals. It was there that the Evanuris had won the Great War, where Anaris had killed the Beast. The fortress had been gifted to Anaris as tribute. It was his greatest pride, something he lorded over the heads of the Creators. A place of victory, barred from their self-righteousness.

“You are a fool, Fen’harel, to think Anaris will give up such a treasure.”

He smiled. It was eerie, that smile. Slow and creeping, reminding her that she was only a messenger, a pawn. He was a _god._

“Your father is asking for a treasure of even greater measure, Falon’arla.” A pause, long and agonizing. “He will agree to my terms.”

\---

Arla woke to the warm and urgent atmosphere of the infirmary. It was merely a glorified tent with wards to keep the cold out and cots pulled up from the dungeon. Her vision was too blurry to focus on anything, and a throbbing pain pulsed from her chest and head in eerie tandem. She stared at the cloth ceiling for a few moments, struggling to process what had happened. Her eyes closed, watering from use. She let the darkness piece together what had occurred. Had Adeni taken their training too far again? Last time, there had been enough blood that Arla needed a new set of training clothes. Or, maybe, she had been careless in the last battle. There _had_ been a battle, hadn’t there? Another territory dispute that Anaris only wished to settle in blood?

“How’s the Herald doing?” An alien voice cut through the much, sparking Arla’s senses, bringing it all back in flickers of knowledge.

“Her recovery is going well. I’m sure Andraste was watching over her- the stab wound really wasn’t so bad.”

“Ha, that’s an idea.”

“I mean, she is the Herald of Andraste.”

“Yes, but… she’s _Dalish._ Tattooed and all. Why would Andraste want to watch over some flat-ear?”

“Andraste- and the Maker- they work in mysterious ways.” There was a grunt of agreement. “But, you make a good point. She doesn’t even believe in Andraste!”

Another voice, this one familiar, cut into the flow of conversation. 

“I don’t believe gossiping is one of your duties as healers. Realizing your patient has regained consciousness might be, however.” Leliana’s lofty voice drew forth a cascade of apologies from the two healers, who were promptly dismissed from the tent. Arla still didn’t open her eyes, waiting, wondering… “You’re too tense to be a sleeping person, Arla.”

“Sorry.” Her immediate instinct was to apologize to the red haired spy, opening her eyes again. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“They are the ones at fault. Unfortunately, it’s slightly difficult to find trained healers interested in our cause.” Leliana sat herself at the foot of the cot, almost smiling. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive, I suppose. But… can you tell me what happened? I can’t remember anything.”

“Solas tells us there was an assassin. You hit your head when you fell. Concussion. It’s lucky you weren’t on your own.”

“An assassin,” Arla mused. She used to be the assassin, luring people to their deaths. Now look at her. “How long was I out?”

“Two days. You were supposed to leave for Orlais today, but Josephine is in the process of rescheduling-”

“Tell her not to bother.” Arla pushed herself to her feet. Her head filled with darkness for a few seconds before settling. “I know how Orlesians work. If we reschedule, we are untrustworthy, looked down upon. Dismissed.”

“Yes, but you are still recovering!”

“So?” Leliana sputtered for an answer, but Arla left the tent before any words could come together. If she was being targeted by an assassin, it meant that what she was doing was important. She couldn’t let anyone see her falter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot apologize enough for how long i took to get this up. i was bouncing around so much between school and shows, and yesterday was closing night for one of them, which means i have some free time!! hopefully i'll be able to stick to a decent schedule for awhile (at least until the musical).
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed! there was a lot of set up in this chapter. thank you for reading and feedback is always appreciated!!
> 
> EDIT: I totally forgot to mention! Vena is not my character! He belongs to feynites, you can find her here on ao3 or on tumblr. She totally inspired this entire fic, and is an amazing fucking writer, so please go check her out.


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